Let me just drop another chapter here.
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Chapter 40: Textbook Example Criminal
The two men pressed themselves against the doorframe, drew their sidearms, and clicked off the safeties. The only sound was their controlled breathing.
Bernie suddenly kicked the iron door open and burst onto the rooftop, Theodore right behind him.
The rooftop stretched out before them, expansive and empty except for a small brick-and-wood structure tucked into the northwest corner.
They approached cautiously. Bernie took position to provide cover while Theodore kicked in the wooden door.
Empty.
A faint odor of urine and feces drifted from within, so subtle it was barely detectable, like something old and stale.
The walls were papered entirely with police materials: regulations, departmental rules, reward notices, and disciplinary announcements. Every surface was covered with official police station posters.
But what truly shocked them was the collection filling the room.
Police equipment from every era, retired and current-issue, was meticulously arranged on handmade wooden shelves. Badges, sidearms, and medals were displayed with museum-quality care, each item positioned just so.
The place felt like a shrine to law enforcement history.
"This guy's definitely a superfan," Theodore muttered.
His voice carried a note of excitement, almost agitation. He held up a hand to stop Bernie, then pulled on latex gloves and shoe covers before stepping inside with obvious eagerness.
The cramped quarters felt even smaller with the shelves lining every wall. Once both men were inside, they could barely turn around without bumping into the displays.
Even Bernie found himself admiring the antique equipment up close, despite the circumstances.
After studying the collection carefully, Theodore picked up a police badge showing spots of rust around the edges.
"Made of paper," he said, taking the badge apart to show Bernie the cheap construction.
Bernie blinked, his earlier awe deflating by half.
"Is FD-1915-013 a badge number?" Theodore asked suddenly, holding up another specimen.
Bernie examined it for a long moment before slipping it into an evidence bag. He shook his head. "I don't know, that's four years before I was even born."
Theodore continued searching the shelves. "This should be his grandfather's badge number."
The old FD-year of entry-entry number format had been replaced in the 1940s with FD-department code-four random digits. Theodore and his colleagues all carried badges following the newer system.
Besides the numbering differences, the materials and construction of vintage badges were distinctly different from modern ones. Of course, since these were all paper reproductions, those distinctions were impossible to assess.
Theodore searched methodically and discovered something odd: regardless of which badge he examined, every single one bore the same number, FD-1915-013.
Finally, he collected two drinking cups and handed them to Bernie, who bagged them as evidence before they both stepped back outside.
Bernie was still grinning, remembering Theodore's earlier comment in the car about catching Carlos red-handed when he returned home.
But Theodore had changed his mind. "Let's check Sam's place first," he said quietly.
Even now, his body trembled slightly with excitement, and his voice carried a tremor of anticipation.
The moment he'd entered that makeshift shrine, a familiar sensation had washed over him, muscle memory from his previous life activating. That classic, textbook criminal pattern felt incredibly, almost eerily familiar.
Bernie quickly jimmied the lock on Sam's apartment door.
The space had the typical bachelor layout, generally clean but with furnishings arranged somewhat haphazardly.
Theodore donned his protective gear and entered, heading straight for the bathroom.
The mirror was intact, personal items like his razor were neatly arranged on the sink, and the medicine cabinet contained only common over-the-counter medications.
Next, Theodore checked the bedroom closet. Sam's uniform was indeed missing, but his civilian clothes remained untouched on their hangers.
A family photograph sat undisturbed on the bedside table.
Finally, he examined the door lock and confirmed there were no signs of forced entry.
The two men left the apartment. Bernie returned to question the street vendor about Carlos, but the man was still nursing resentment over Bernie's earlier abrupt dismissal of their conversation and showed no inclination to cooperate.
Bernie's eyes flashed with irritation, his temper beginning to flare, but the vendor muttered something unintelligible under his breath, then clamped his mouth shut and refused to speak further.
Bernie's anger died in his throat.
Theodore asked what the vendor had said. Bernie's tone carried a complicated mix of emotions. "He said we're just like the people from twenty years ago and forty years ago."
Theodore shook his head and addressed the vendor directly. "Sam is missing, and we're here to investigate his disappearance."
"He's been gone for two days already. The chances of finding him alive are getting slimmer by the hour. You can certainly stall all you want."
"We're just his colleagues and friends. Since you clearly don't care what happens to him, we can take our sweet time with this investigation."
The vendor seemed to waver for a moment, but when his eyes fell on their badges, his resolve hardened immediately.
He lowered his head and busied himself with arranging his meat filling, some unidentifiable protein that looked less than appetizing.
Theodore recognized a dead end when he saw one. He nodded curtly, said "Very well," and signaled Bernie to leave.
The vendor maintained his silence until their car disappeared from the neighborhood. He stood at his stall watching them go, his eyes filled with wariness and open hostility.
The middle-aged man from the apartment next to Sam's peered out his window, first tracking the departing vehicle, then engaging the vendor in hushed conversation. Finally, he posed a question in worried tones.
The vendor responded with several hateful remarks before breaking into a knowing grin. "How is that even possible!" he scoffed.
The middle-aged man retreated indoors, still visibly troubled.
What he wanted was Sam's influence and connections, not Sam's elimination.
He understood perfectly well the advantages that came with having a police officer in his corner. In his carefully laid plans, Sam was supposed to become his right-hand man, his inside source.
Not to mention the complications involving Sam's damned brother...
Bernie located the patrol officer assigned to the area and instructed him to maintain surveillance on the apartment building, with special attention to Carlos.
Back in the car, he asked, "Are you certain it was Carlos Mendoza who kidnapped Sam?"
Theodore nodded without hesitation.
"Why?"
Theodore considered the question for a moment, then posed one of his own: "Have you ever heard of the Oedipus complex or the patricide complex?"
Bernie looked completely lost. "What the hell is that?"
Theodore tried to simplify his explanation. "Some people develop an extreme worship of authority figures. They choose to kill those authority figures as a twisted form of personal growth, a way to claim that power for themselves."
Bernie pondered this for a long while, still shaking his head. "I don't get it. Sounds like mental illness to me."
Theodore gave him an approving thumbs-up. "Exactly."
"Because of his childhood experiences, Carlos believes becoming a police officer is his destiny, a calling he absolutely must fulfill."
"But his repeated failures at the academy left him feeling frustrated and inadequate. He refuses to accept that he's simply not cut out for the job, especially not in front of his idols, his grandfather and Sam."
"So he decided he needed to 'improve himself.'"
Bernie frowned. "So he chose to kidnap Sam and maybe even kill him?"
Theodore nodded. Bernie shook his head in disbelief. "I still can't wrap my head around it."
"I think he's already completed his 'self-improvement,'" Theodore said grimly.
Seeing Bernie's confused expression, Theodore asked, "You mentioned he lives with his grandfather. Where exactly is his grandfather now?"
Bernie's eyes widened in sudden understanding.
As homicide detectives, they'd encountered cases of relatives harming each other before, but never for reasons quite like this. This was a first.
Theodore's voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "He's going to fall into complete identity confusion soon."
"He took Sam's uniform, and he's starting to believe he actually is Sam."
He looked directly at Bernie. "What's an impostor's greatest fear?"
Bernie's mouth went dry. "The real person."
Theodore nodded grimly. "So to prove to himself that he really is Sam, he won't be able to resist much longer."
"He's going to have to kill the real Sam."
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